


Shut the Door

by ergo_existence



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: M/M, bilingualism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-09
Updated: 2014-08-09
Packaged: 2018-02-12 10:36:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2106513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ergo_existence/pseuds/ergo_existence
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>See, if Tucker knew how to say 'I have an enormous dick,' in French, he would have been fine. But he doesn't. So it goes like this:</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shut the Door

**Author's Note:**

> This is beyond silly. Forgive me.
> 
> EDIT: 14/04/2015  
> This fic has been uploaded to a website stealing works on AO3, ebooks-tree.com, and I'm just leaving a note here to notify to you, the reader, this is where it was originally posted by me.  
> Also, ebooks-tree.com, please suck my dick.

It’s a lonely canyon. It’s the same kind of canyon. Tucker’s stuck in _another fucking canyon._ He almost prefers the desert, until he quickly remembers that the sand was as uncomfortable as brick. Then he realises he’s with Caboose in this canyon, _again_. The negatives weigh out the positives by about a tonne, once he comes to this conclusion - desert was preferable.

Tucker comes close to seeing the logic in Church’s decision. He was still an asshole, first and foremost, but he was – he _was_ Tucker’s best friend. In a sense – time seemed to factor into their companionship, and necessity (because Church needed somebody to bounce off, and vice versa, outside of a talking tank and a rookie that was _friends_ with said talking tank).

Agent Washington, though, he hits home run. He outruns everybody else. He’s so out of Tucker’s league it's not even _funny._

This Freelancer dick is all sorts of an athlete, and he’s got a velvet voice to boot _with_ a sarcastic attitude. It’s really quite bruising to Tucker’s ego to even be in the same room as him.

Nonetheless, Tucker _may_ suffer a bit of an attack to his confidence, he is by no means out of his depth; Tex was enough to deal with, Carolina was one step ahead of her, and Agent Washington was _piss easy.  
_ Yeah.

He’s fine in armour. In armour, Wash has the same stare as Tucker. A glare of the visor, reflecting off the harsh light of wherever-the-fuck-they’d-crash-landed (Tucker notes: he did not cause it. Probably).

Out of armour? _Out of armour_? He has grey eyes that could be considered ‘piercing’, but Tucker knows every romance story since the dawn of English described intense eyes as ‘piercing’. So maybe…prodding. No way. Not prodding. Just stormy. And damn, they really cause a ruckus in Tucker’s system. His metaphorical electrics go haywire.

So one morning - it’s one of _those_ mornings, where all of gravity is on Tucker’s shoulders and he can fucking feel life itself decide to shit on him – and he wanders out to the kitchen that was more of a sitting room, for its tables and chairs and no real fridge or bench or even a fucking toaster in sight. His feet hit the ground but they’re quiet compared to the fluid stomps of the SPARTAN armour, and he happens to like the softer noise. Less intruding to the senses, after the wake-up yell of Wash. He hardly even steps a foot into Tucker’s room, now, choosing to bang on the door as much as possible. He ends the cacophony of sounds with a threat of a grenade of some kind, and Tucker doesn’t ever want to risk that. Wash has him beat.

Here he is. Only a pair of pants on, the bare minimum (because he dresses how he likes, _thank you, Agent Washington_ ), and then, _then,_ he’s face to face with a constellation of freckles and svelte shoulders.

Svelte’s the fucking word, all right, for the way Wash’s arms are toned, too. Tucker’s not that short, but his eyes know where to look – they’ve served him well, at least.

“Tucker,” he’s greeted cordially, and Wash holds out an MRE for him, and Tucker grabs it dumbly because help, _arms._

“Yeah,” he says, trying to step away but in a bit of a daze from the _freckles_. They all looked connected like spider webs, so many he has to wonder if Wash had painted them on for shits and giggles. But no, he ascertains they’re real when he runs a hand over like it’s an oasis before him.

He snaps back to reality when he hears Wash start a sentence, because _Tucker does not lapse out like that_.

“Are you all right?” is the finished phrase, and Tucker purses his lips.

“Sure I’m fine, just wondering if those freckles are fake.”

“I would put effort into faking them. Yes, Tucker. Absolutely.” Tucker watches him shake his head and walk away, and there’s really something very great and bold about the way Wash opens an MRE.

There’s definitely a planet or two on Tucker’s back right now, with the air that left him.

“Whatever,” Tucker eloquently replies, because he was made of class. So full of class, people attended him every day.

He’s not even good at pickup lines in his _head._

Then the small talk starts. Clips about Caboose. Something about Wash spotted before he went to bed; Grif actually moving for once outside, a proud soldier in his gear, waving Simmons’ underclothes in the air like a flag.

“It really was a…sight,” Wash says, leaning on his right arm and looking over to Tucker, hair gently brushing his forehead. “There’s not many words to describe the Red team. I don’t know, the sun would implode and Sarge would ask for a new vehicle.” Wash lets out a sharp, small laugh, and Tucker comes to the conclusion it’s an _okay_ laugh. Maybe.

“Don’t know where those assholes get them,” Tucker replies, hesitantly, and he scrunches up his nose. He hates being awake before midday, and most of all stuck around Wash without armour on. Wash without armour meant _those fucking eyes._ Distraction. Dumb. Devious? Tucker was never good with ‘d’. Or getting the ‘d’.

Tucker expects the next week to roll out with leg days and allegories to _soldier’s honour_ and tales of Sarge blowing up his own base for ‘redecoration’ and Simmons trying to engage Tucker in conversations about his fucking radioactive cabbages.

He certainly doesn’t expect Wash going from ‘dude out of his league’ to ‘dude he totally wishes would be in his league because _holy fuck_.’

And it’s obvious that’s not going to happen.

 _Exhibit A_ :

“So uh, Wash, those Freelancer, uh, _friends_ ,” Tucker edges out like a grate, watching Wash attempt to repair the communications tower. It’s been a futile endeavour all day, with the soldering iron missing. “You ever, you know, get it on with them?”

He expects more tact. He expects more fucking tact on a subject he’s _good_ with.

“Excuse me?” Wash doesn’t look up, or even turn away, but there’s a slight turn of his neck that indicates a kind of offense that’s special to Wash. ‘I’m not going to shoot you, but I really question your span of ignorance’ type.

“C’mon, soldiers stuck together? And I know there were chicks,” Tucker picks up in surety, and he lets his words flow in a way he knew how: didn’t even _think_ about them. He crosses his arms for extra measure.

“Tucker,” Wash says, looking up. “If I ever went _near_ Carolina—and I don’t even—”

“Okay, okay,” Tucker interrupts quickly, then says, “What about the dudes?”

There’s a tired sigh from Wash, who has become familiarised with Tucker’s typical antics. “No. We were in a military operation designed to train highly skilled soldiers and test artificial intelligence on the field. There was not much time for interpersonal relationships.” He grunts, flicking something Tucker didn’t know what was called because communication towers _aren’t_ his thing. Wash adds after a moment, “Pass me that, would you?”

Tucker asks twice what ‘that’ is and he meets a steadily rising in anger Wash. It’s an all-around good day, he guesses. But he can’t exactly discern if Wash would fuck him, so he tests the waters again.

 _Exhibit B_ :

It’s about five days later, in the evening – ‘downtime’, as Wash put it – and Caboose is already asleep, because his schedule ran from a tight ten o’clock as their HUD’s told them to an eight o’clock wake. It’s been the same since the beginning, and in a way, it was another of those ‘Things Tucker Can Count On,’ right beside Caboose’s continual idiocy.

“Hey, Wash,” Tucker says to the silence that had consumed them for a few hours. They spent it reclining on the half-couch-half-something-you-can-sit-on-but-isn’t-that-comfortable. “What was life like for you, before y’know, the military?”

“Does it bear talking about?” Wash turns his head away, and Tucker notes he stiffens in the same way whenever _AI_ is mentioned. He’s learnt not to be intrusive about that now, at least.

“Sorry, dude. Most people are okay talking about it, I guess, uh,” Tucker begins to say, and stretches out his legs like they had answers written on them. “Shit.”

“You’re apologetic? Colour me surprised.”

“Whoa, I’m not a dick _all_ the time.” Wash shifted back to Tucker beside him, tilting his head slightly in the questioning yet facetious way. “I’m not.”

“All right. So,” Wash says, letting out a breath, seeming to have come to some sort of conclusion. “What did you want to know?”

“Boyfriends, girlfriends. That kinda shit.”

“Boyfriends?”

“If you had them, yeah.”

“Any reason?”

A smirk creeps across Tucker’s face, and tucks his arms behind his head. “’s interesting.”

“I never had any,” Wash replies hastily, curtly, and stands. “I learnt French, though. Nothing much else. I’m going to bed. You should too.”

He teases Tucker. It’s _fucking terrible_.

_Exhibit C:_

Wash stops by Tucker’s room weeks later. When Tucker is on the whisper of _sleep_ , about to drift off into wet-dreamland.

“Tucker?” he hears, and it’s a tender tone, it’s _soft_ , it’s nothing compared to all the arguments they’ve had for days and days, nowhere near the cutting words that seemed to be build and build and erupt like a volcano.

Because it’s Wash’s voice, Tucker’s body has learnt to snap out of slumber, to wake up quicker than an alarm. So then he sort of expects, with the kind look on Wash’s face – one that might’ve been under his helmet the other day, with the stupid as shit story about hooked balls – a sentiment that’s maybe inviting. Or something tender.

He hears, “Shut the door.” Because of course it’s about chores. But it isn’t a clear _shut the door_ , it’s sort of – a ‘j’ sound.

So Tucker returns, “I don’t care if the door is open.”

Then there’s a confused smile on Wash’s face, a flicker of _sadness_ , and he’s gone.

The door is shut.

\--

It’s a continual theme. Tucker gives up collecting evidence as to Why Wash Is Out of his League and Definitely Won’t Fuck Him.

Every night. Every _fucking_ night.

“Shut the door.”

He says, “I don’t care if the door is open.”

\--

One night, “Tucker, shut the door. For the last time, maybe. I don’t know. Shut the door.”

“Last time? Dude, it’s a door.” He expects the intrusions of Wash now.

“I guess.”

\--

The light pours in.

“Tucker – I don’t know what’s going on with Felix, or this _Locus_ ,” he hears, and Tucker sits up to see a Wash with even _darker_ shadows under his eyes. He didn’t know it was possible. “But just this – shut the door.”

“Fuck off.”

\--

“This will be it. I have a bad feeling.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Tucker replies, and he’s not even in bed, he’s sitting on the floor waiting for it. ‘Cause he sure as shit isn’t going to give in and shut the door. “Do you ever stop?”

“Shut the door.”

\--

Rocks fall.

The door is left open, the last Tucker sees.

\--

“What was Agent Washington like?” Palomo asks, the Lieutenant of Tucker’s now. He’s fucking _stuck_ with him, and that must be what it was like for Wash.

“He was okay.”

“C’mon,” Palomo leans forward, and rubs his nose dirty from the charcoal he was using to draw earlier. Shit Tucker never bothered with. “He was a Freelancer!”

Tucker sighs. “He was cool. Good with a rifle, I guess, and never seemed to fucking die. Go to bed, Palomo.”

“Not tired yet!”

“Oh, let me guess. You want to swap stories. Why don’t you braid my dreadlocks, too?” He snorts and crosses his legs, and his eyes dart up to the door of the quarters he shared with Caboose, Palomo and Smith.

His heart races, for a minute, mind clocking back to when it would be time for Wash to come and annoy him (because it became day and night, with him: morning wakeups weren’t enough).

The door is shut, though.

\--

“Palomo,” he says the next day. “Stop shutting the door.”

“Why? Everybody else who walks past will see us!”

“Doing _what_ , Palomo?” and for a moment Tucker is scared he has freckles growing over his dark skin and grey eyes bulging from his sockets.

“You know. I like my privacy.”

“If I say leave the door open, _do it.”_

\--

The door is open and Wash does not turn up. He removes himself from the thin sheets, pokes his head out like suddenly Wash will have magically appeared. But he does not.

\--

“What’s with Tucker and doors?” he hears his dumb as shit lieutenant say to the other lazy as shit lieutenant, Bitters.

“How should I know? I’m with Captain Grif.”

“Oh, yeah. I guess so.”

\--

He checks every evening, on the odd chance it might work like a ritual. Maybe an incantation will work.

Stands at the door for a few seconds – it’s brief. No Wash.

\--

They go. The Warthog doesn’t have doors.

He’s becoming a little obsessive.

\--

The door. A _door_. Whatever's behind that fucking door – shit, shit, shit. Shut the door. Open the door. Wash won’t be there. _Stop pretending._

Well. He is. It worked.

\--

“So, um, good to have you back,” Tucker says. “Wait. No. It’s not. You’re going to make me do squats again.”

A damp cave is where they’re stuck and it’s _relatively_ shit. Relative to the fact Church is a dick and that generally manages to make even something away from deadly mercenaries feel like a shithole.

He’s quite talented.

Agent Washington laughs, stands beside the rock Tucker is leaning against. “I don’t think we’ll have time for those. I guess you should be happy.”

“Yeah. So um, small talk. Hey, you said you learnt French.”

“Smooth, Tucker,” Wash says, and it should be an insult any other time, knowing Wash, but his tone’s relieved and he’s leaning back on one arm. They don’t have long before they’re having to do _something_ like save an entire fucking planet, but that was them. Shit’s a bit fucked up.

“Say something, then.”

“Like what?”

“’My dick is humongous.’ Wait, no, say ‘your dick is humongous’ so it’s meant for me.”

“How about, _shut the door_?”

“That’s not fucking French!” Tucker turns and gestures with his hands. “There are no doors. You’re not shutting any fucking doors.”

Wash laughs, and it’s a light one. He likes it. Maybe.

“Tucker, _Tucker_ ,” he hears. “ _Je t'adore.”_

“What?”

“It’s _French_. It means ‘I adore you.’ I suppose it sounds somewhat like ‘shut the door.” Wash is _kind_ of a dick, and Tucker is then realising _he was totally in his league, holy shit._

“Oh.”

“Well done, Tucker.”

“Huh.”

“Yes.” They nod their heads at the same time and Tucker laughs.

“You’re like, _smooth_ , dude,” he comments after a few seconds of nothing. “That’s better than _anything_ I pulled off.”

Doors. Fucking _doors_ and he meant ‘I adore you.’ Tucker’s a fucking _idiot_ , but hey, he knows a bit of Sangheili, not French. Then he finds out Dr. Grey called Carolina ‘honey’ and that didn’t end well, but apparently they found Doc so they have one more incompetent dickhead around.

Shit’s all right.

**Author's Note:**

> I love comments - no pressure, though! Have a great day, if you can.


End file.
